


small and white, clean and bright

by branwyn



Category: Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Mycroft and Sherlock have a little sister and she's not my OC, Siblings, consanguinity, enola holmes is fourteen years old and good at ciphers, home snark dynamics, seriously you need to read the Nancy Springer books because Enola Holmes is gold, texting with criminal masterminds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mummy's vanished. She does that, sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft texts him at six in the morning. Sherlock knows it's Mycroft because of the alert noise, which he has personalized to warn him of Mycroft's impending interference. The alert is a 2.5 second long .mp3 of Penderecki's _Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima._ Whenever Mycroft texts him in public, the frantic, clawing strains of the music make everyone around him feel exactly like Mycroft makes Sherlock feel. Because misery shared is misery halved, or something.

But John's not up yet, so there's no one to wince at the music but him. There's also no case on, and nothing on the telly. Even the rush of his latest nicotine patch is fading off. 

Sherlock opens the text.

 _Mummy,_ is all it says.

Sherlock's lips twitch. The single word communicates volumes. _"Is missing"_ is the implied part of the text. Not abducted, or possibly murdered, or even likely to have got lost or had an accident, but deliberately, provokingly, _missing_. Because, sometimes, she does that. Sherlock is used to it by now, and God knows Mycroft should be.

He'll look into it, of course, mostly for the fun because Mummy is always a challenge. But Mycroft is obviously already on it, so Sherlock asks something more interesting instead.

 _Enola?_ he types.

 _Roedean,_ comes the immediate reply.

This time, Sherlock frowns. His sister can't have been sent to boarding school without him knowing about it. No, Mycroft is failing to answer his question, and answering a different one entirely. Not, _how is their sister doing,_ but, _what is to be done with her this time?_ Boarding school. Honestly. It's the stupidest idea Sherlock's heard yet today.

 _No,_ says Sherlock, with finality. Every possible nuance that the single syllable can convey is applicable. _No,_ Sherlock does not think it is a good idea to send their brilliant fourteen-year-old sister to school simply because their mother has pulled (another) runner. If Mycroft attempts to force the issue, then _no,_ Sherlock will not help him. And what is much more to the point, _no,_ Enola isn't going to _let_ anyone pack her off to Roedean. She's twenty years younger than Sherlock and she's had internet access since she learned to read at the age of two, which means that school, quite literally, has nothing left to teach her. _And_ she's better socially adjusted than either Mycroft or Sherlock, to the point that it's practically preposterous that they have charge of her affairs and not the other way around.

 _Alternatives?_ texts Mycroft. Sherlock can hear the peevishness behind his use of the question mark. He is probably remembering the first time Sherlock ran away from boarding school. And the second time, and the third, and then the time with the fetal pigs at breakfast that got him expelled.

 _Emancipation,_ Sherlock replies immediately. It's what his adult self would have advised anyone who'd had to deal with _him_ at that age.

 _Non-risible alternatives?_ Mycroft shoots back.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. No surprise there. Mycroft would send _Sherlock_ back to Roedean--er, Eton--if he could get away with it. Of course he's not going to relinquish control of his only other sibling while she's still a minor. No, Mycroft's going to spend the next four to seven years trying to mold Enola's brain into an instrument that will serve his purposes. 

The horrifying thing is, he might actually bring it off. Enola is extraordinary, but she is still rather impressionable, and Mycroft knows what he's doing now. He'd only been a child himself when he started in on Sherlock, or Sherlock would probably have the office adjoining Mycroft's, the age he is now.

A strange mental image comes to Sherlock's mind. He sees Mycroft, standing over their younger sister (who for phenotypical purposes is a shorter, skinnier, female version of Sherlock) and peering down into her skull, which opens on a hinge in the back. He's prodding at the jellyish organ it houses with one fat finger, and smirking his familiar smirk.

Suddenly, Sherlock wants to break something. Mycroft's finger would do, if it were available.

He looks back at Mycroft's text. Alternatives, alternatives. It's pointless, their mother will probably come back any day now, and not be best pleased to find that her elder children have absconded with her youngest. That won't stop Mycroft doing as he likes in the mean time, though. Short-term intervention on Enola's behalf is necessary.

Sherlock could just text her a warning. But if she goes into hiding from Mycroft, she'll disappear so thoroughly not even Sherlock will be able to find her. Not for ages, anyway. He doesn't want that. For fourteen--well, no, twelve years (it had been impossible to know how she'd turn out before she could talk properly) Enola has been his favorite person in the world. John _might_ be tied with her now, but Enola was there first. And despite being incredibly clever, she is fourteen. He doesn't want anything to happen to her, and if she's left entirely on her own, something _might_.

The alternative that comes to Sherlock then makes him hoot with a mixture of delight and triumph. Mycroft is going to be livid. And it'll be simply _ages_ before he's bored again.

 _Me,_ he types

 _?_ , says Mycroft.

 _The alternative,_ says Sherlock.

It takes Mycroft fully two minutes to reply to this, as though his limbic brain has stuttered to a halt. _No._

_Yes._

_Sherlock._

_Mycroft._

_FOURTEEN, Sherlock._

_Educational. Entertaining._ Sherlock considers for a moment, then adds, _Economical,_ knowing that this is a more direct line to Mycroft's cooperation. Five minutes pass, which Sherlock spends mentally composing the text he's going to send to Enola as soon as he finds out just how tetchy Mycroft's going to be about this. 

_Scoliosis,_ Mycroft finally replies.

 _???_ Enola doesn't have scoliosis, Sherlock would have noticed. 

_Sofa_ , says Mycroft.

Ah. Yes. The matter of accommodations. Probably wouldn't do to point out that he rarely sleeps and therefore there's no reason Enola can't share a bed with him. People tend to take that sort of thing the wrong way.

 _221c_ , he texts back. The girl's got a trust fund, hasn't she? Of course she does, they all bloody do.

While he's waiting for Mycroft to reply to this, he texts Enola: _How fast could you get to London from Sussex if you knew that I was the only thing stopping Mycroft from shipping you off to boarding school?_

Sherlock's not in the habit of underestimating people in general, much less his siblings. He is, nonetheless, slightly shocked when the bell to 221 rings thirty seconds later.

"Sherlock?" And there's John, just coming down the stairs. "Is someone at the door?"

He looks slightly grumpy about this possibility. Sherlock opens his mouth, then shuts it.

Perhaps he should have thought this through a bit more.

*

"Mycroft's been after Mum to send me to school all my life," says Enola. She's sitting at the kitchen table across from Sherlock, while John, who recovered quickly from the shock of Enola's arrival, cooks breakfast. Her grey messenger bag is on the floor at her feet, and her long Sherlock-colored hair is twisted into a knot on the back of her head. She wraps her fingers around a mug that Sherlock drinks from all the time. It looks larger in her hands, which are practically smaller-scale replicas of his. 

Sometimes, Sherlock likes to look at Enola and pretend that he successfully cloned himself, only as a girl. He'd mentioned this to her once, and she'd told him that she considered herself a genetic sport. Sherlock had sulked for a week.

"I didn't even text Mycroft that Mum was gone until I was on the train and halfway to London. I know him better than that. Thank you, Dr Watson," she says, accepting a plate of eggs and toast. "I was at the cafe downstairs, because I wanted to be sure you'd be awake before I came up."

"I was up," says Sherlock.

"When I said 'you' I meant 'Dr Watson'."

"Call me John," says John, beaming at Enola. He gives Sherlock a happy sort of look that Sherlock really doesn't know how to interpret. "You came to London on your own, then?" 

"Sherlock's had me up to visit a few times since he moved out of his Montague Street flat." She pauses and gives Sherlock a meaningful look, as though to imply that she now knows precisely why Sherlock never brought her up before he'd left that place. He hopes, at least, that Mycroft didn't tell her. He'd much rather she simply learned to hack his medical records for herself. 

"Showed you the sights, did he?" says John.

"He wanted to teach me how to get about London safely."

"Oh?" John glances at Sherlock, looking surprised, pleased, and positively proud. "And what sort of things did he teach you?"

"I told her not to talk to strange men," says Sherlock. John's upward movement of the eyebrows says, _oh, right,_ but his expression is a little disappointed.

"Actually, he told me, 'don't talk to strange men, unless you're certain you're stranger than they are.'" 

John chokes slightly on his tea. It's Sherlock's turn to beam proudly.

"Well," says John, when he receovers, "I trust you'll have no trouble in that regard while you're here. Your brothers are very, um."

"Megalomaniacal?"

"I was going to say, protective."

"That too." Enola's thumb brushes the front pocket of her black denim jacket, where she keeps her phone. She frowns. "Speaking of which--"

"Of megalomania?" says Sherlock.

"Yes, actually," says Enola. "When do I get to meet Jim Moriarty?"

John freezes. His eyes meet Sherlock's for a second, and an abundance of silent communication, mostly profanity, passes between them. Sherlock narrows his gaze at his sister, something cold beginning to coil in his stomach.

"Why, exactly, would you expect to meet Moriarty?" he says.

"Well, we've been texting each other quite a lot lately." Enola takes a bite of her toast. Chews. Swallows. "He's clever, isn't he?"

Sherlock's vision goes entirely white. When it clears again, he finds John gaping at him. Enola looks between them both, faintly amused.

"Excuse me." Sherlock sets his fork aside and rises from the table. "I just need to go and kill a man."


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Mycroft answers his phone on the first ring, despite the hour. Which is just as well for him, because otherwise Sherlock's only alternative would be to go straight to his flat and shove cake up his nostrils until he died.

"I have been staying abreast of the situation, I assure you," Mycroft says, before Sherlock can get a word out. "There has been nothing untoward in Moriarty's communications with Enola."

"He's my arch-nemesis!" Sherlock shouts. "My arch-nemesis is flirting with our sister via text! That is the embodied definition of _untoward_ , Mycroft!"

"We don't _flirt_ ," says Enola, her tone laden with scorn. She's followed Sherlock into the sitting room, and she's obviously having no difficulty following both sides of the conversation. "Good heavens, Sherlock, he's ancient."

"He's my age!"

"As I said."

"What the hell do you talk about, then?"

"Botany. Bach. We've got a chess game going." 

"You've no business discussing botany with a murderer!"

"You're just jealous."

And Sherlock stops. His face heats. Because, okay, yes. Maybe. Just a little. If a criminal mastermind had wanted to mentor _him_ when he was fourteen--well. Better to shut that line of thought down now.

Mycroft makes an amused-sounding noise on the other end of the line. "She does have a point, Sherlock. Are you feeling a bit left out? I could provide you with transcripts of their exchanges, if you like. They make for most amusing and informative reading."

"You've been monitoring her phone and you didn't stop this?" Sherlock finds that his voice is climbing to a rather high pitch.

"Of course I monitor her phone, you imbecile. She informed me as soon as he got in touch. I saw no reason to curtail their conversations. The more information we have about him, the better. Enola has been very skillful at drawing him out."

Sherlock blinks, then lowers the phone. He turns on Enola. "You told Mycroft."

"I was given to understand that Jim is a threat to the safety of the commonwealth," she says primly. 

"You should have told _me_!"

"National security is really more Mycroft's area, isn't it?"

"He's _my_ arch-nemesis. Mine!"

"Now you're just being greedy."

"He committed his first murder at the age of eleven!"

"Yes, he told me how he derived the botulinum from samples at the chemistry lab at his school. I made some notes and wrote a paper for my on-line chemistry tutor. I got top marks."

Sherlock finds that he needs to sit down. He sits down, and studies his sister, who is curled, cat-like, in John's chair opposite him. "Did he offer this information freely, or did you request it?"

"He told me. I'd shown him my monograph on poison-herb gardens in the Renaissance."

He takes a very deep breath, then lifts the phone to his ear again. "Still want to send her to school, Mycroft?"

"Don't be absurd. One can learn from a murderer without being swayed to emulate him. Or do you suspect Enola of criminal ambitions?"

"Of course n--" Sherlocks stops. He looks at Enola. " _Do_ you have criminal ambitions?"

Enola narrows her eyes, and looks, for an instant, so much like his own reflection that his heart gives a funny sideways lurch. "Would that bother you?"

"I." He thinks about it for a moment. "I don't know."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, obviously _I'm_ the one we should all be worried about. Will you tell Mycroft that Jim is probably in Montreal by now?"

"Oh, you're privy to his bloody travel itinerary now, are you?" 

"Don't be tiresome. The last time he texted me, it was in French. Quebecois French. I think he was testing me to see if I'd know the difference."

"And there, you see, Sherlock," says Mycroft, his voice carrying audibly, even though Sherlock's phone is in his lap. "Moriarty would never make such a revelatory error with either of us, would he? He's getting carried away by the thrill of having an apt pupil to instruct."

"Enola," Sherlock snarls into the phone, "wants to know if she's going to _see him_ while she's in London."

"I see no reason why that can't be arranged." Fireworks of mute rage explode behind Sherlock's eyes. There's a noise on Mycroft's end, as of papers shuffling."My people will be in Montreal shortly."

"Oh, _will they._ " It occurs to Sherlock that he may, actually, never recover from this morning. A year of being teased and chased and occasionally getting his best friend kidnapped and threatened with explosives, and now his interfering prat of an elder brother is going to pick Moriarty up from the airport as casually as a pack of fags from the duty free. Acting on information from his baby sister, _who was supposed to like Sherlock better._

"Well, when I say _people_." Mycroft sighs. "I think it's rather clear where Mummy's gone now, don't you?"

John comes into the sitting room then, and Sherlock's phone only escapes being dashed to pieces against the wall because John takes it firmly from his hand.

*

"Give it to me."

"No."

Sherlock's fists become tight balls of frustration. "I'll give it back! Just let me see it."

"You'll x-ray it, or strip the sim card, or change my ringtone to something unspeakable."

"I won't, I _promise_."

"You said that at Christmas and you did it anyway." Enola glances over at John, who's joined them in the sitting room. "He made my phone play the Oompa Loompa song about eating too many sweets whenever Mycroft called."

Sherlock was gratified to see John's face pinch up behind his hands, the way it did whenever he was trying desperately not to laugh. "What did he change his to?"

"'London Calling', because he thinks he's _cool_."

"I live in London," Sherlocks mutters, falling dramatically backwards onto the sofa, glad that he hadn't bothered changing out of his dressing gown that morning. This was developing into the sort of day that didn't deserve proper clothing. Nothing as nice as his, anyway. "It was geographically appropriate."

"I changed Mycroft's to Vader's theme from Star Wars," says Enola, ignoring him, in a way that Sherlock isn't used to, and, frankly, finds a bit hurtful. "And I changed Sherlock's to 'Don't Fear the Reaper'. She gives him a sideways glance and a small grin. "Because he's a little bit cool."

"A _little_ bit? Not even a _whole_ bit? Thanks very much." 

Enola gets up from John's chair, walks the four feet to the sofa, and throws herself down on top of him, hard. She is light but bony and Sherlock makes a loud and suitably outraged noise and immediately begins to wrestle her for her phone. His intent is to let Enola win for approximately forty seconds, before he takes his prize, but much to his shock he ends up on the floor with his limbs behind him in a three point hold he can't get out of without hurting her. Which he's not willing to do. Yet.

"Nice one, Enola," says John approvingly. "Who taught you how to do that?"

"Anthea," says Enola, not moving. Sherlock whines into the carpet. "Sherlock, I emailed you my conversations with Jim this morning. You haven't even looked at your email, have you?"

"Mmrrplemp," says Sherlock.

She stands up. Sherlock gets to his feet and adjusts his dressing gown, and his dignity, before diving for his laptop and searching his email frantically.

"They wouldn't let you do that to people at Roedean," he points out, as he scrolls down his inbox. "Mycroft wants you to wear skirts, you know. And play field hockey. _I_ saved you."

"My hero."

"Yes." Sherlock locates the email and opens it, banishing the presence of Enola and John from the field of his attention.

Enola sighs. "Would you like to take a walk with me, Dr Watson? Sherlock's going to be busy for awhile."

"What? Oh, yes. Yes, I'd like that." John stands up. "That all right with you, Sherlock?"

"As you like," mutters Sherlock. "Take your gun. Shoot anyone who looks at her."

"Naturally. I'll just get my coat, Enola."

Enola bends down and presses a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. He scratches at the spot idly, and a moment later he hears Johna and Enola shut the door of 221 behind him. He begins to read.


	3. Chapter 3

3\. 

_+4402898577436: Hi Enola. My name's Jim! Fancy a chat?_

_Enola Holmes: I don't know anyone named Jim._

_+4402898577436: Don't you? No one at aallll? ;-)_

_Enola Holmes: Oh. Um, hello._

_Clever, clever Enola,_ thinks Sherlock, even as he bites down hard on the inside of his mouth. The timestamp measures less than two minutes between Moriarty's first text and Enola's second. In exactly one minute, twenty-eight seconds, she'd figured out who he was. Sherlock wonders what she knew about Moriarty before this. The country code of the number he'd used was from Northern Ireland, obviously a planted clue, since his base of operations was undoubtedly international, but how could she have known he was Irish? Oh, yes, the name. She loves names; her own name is a cipher, and when she was eight she'd delightedly informed Sherlock that his name didn't suit him at all, as his hair was neither short nor golden. But she must have had more information than that to put it together so quickly. Does she read John's blog? Stupid, of course she does. She was always on Sherlock's site. She emailed him correcting the style of his monographs sometimes. Half his sister's essence traveled on bandwidth, the other half on pure cheek.

Moriarty had texted her again within seconds of her acknowledging his identity. He'd been eager for this contact. Unsettlingly eager.

 

_+4402898577436: Hello! Congratulations on placing first at the Int'l Chemistry Olympiad._

_Enola Holmes: Thank you._

 

Sherlock's stomach clenches. Had _he_ congratulated Enola for that yet? _Is Moriarty a better brother than I am?_ he wonders, panicked, then shakes his head. Emotions, he can't afford to indulge his emotions. Like John, Enola tends to stir them up more than is strictly usual. 

The transcript shows a call at that point from Enola's phone to a number Sherlock recognizes as Mycroft's personal mobile, although the name it's listed under in Enola's address book is _PM2020_ , because it is Enola's personal theory that Mycroft is waiting until he turns fifty to become Prime Minister. Sherlock wonders what name she's got him listed under. The call to Mycroft lasted three minute, eighteen seconds, after which, presumably with Mycroft's blessing, Enola had texted Moriarty again. 

All Moriarty's messages in the transcript from this point appear in Enola's address book as _Sodding Nutter (JM)_. Sherlock's laugh is a loud bark.

 

_Enola Holmes: I've heard that you're interested in chemistry too._

_Sodding Nutter (JM): Oh, I've dabbled a bit in my time. Gtg, I'll be in touch!_

 

Sherlock examines the timestamp again. Enola had chosen to store Moriarty's number in her address book within five minutes of the first text, indicating that she'd immediately made up her mind to keep talking with him. Half Sherlock's initial fury with Mycroft was because he assumed Mycroft had asked her to engage Moriarty, but now Sherlock finds himself wondering if she'd called Mycroft to ask for permission, or if she'd simply informed him of the state of affairs. He thinks it's more probably the latter. He thinks that Enola needs locking up for her own safety. He wonders if perhaps that is how Mycroft has felt about _him_ all these years, and thinks that would explain a great deal.

The next exchange happened two days later. Moriarty had texted her with the name of a book about women chess champions. They'd discussed game strategy for a bit. Sherlock hasn't been interested in chess since he was younger than Enola, and it all goes frustratingly over his head.

 

_Sodding Nutter (JM): It's sweet of you to chat with me like this. Ordinary people are SO boring. But don't your brothers mind?_

_Enola Holmes: Like I care what they mind._

 

Oh. That--stings, unexpectedly.

Except, no. That's _wrong_. That's not how Enola speaks; when she's being dismissive of Sherlock, she grows formal and polysyllabic. This is playacting. This is Enola, pretending to Moriarty that she's a sulky teenager who resents her big brothers being over-protective. 

He wonders if Moriarty bought it.

*

The transcript file attached to Enola's email is 119k. Objectively, Sherlock knows that John and Enola have been gone less than an hour, but he feels as though he's been reading for days. Enola had not been remotely exaggerating when she'd said that she and Moriarty had texted "quite a lot". The mobile bill must be huge, unless she has unlimited texting. 

And it's been going on for months. Since shortly after Sherlock's first face-to-face meeting with Moriarty at the pool, in fact. Sherlock has seen Enola three times in the last six months, not counting today-- _how_ could she have kept it from him this long? Surely there must have been signs that she was in contact with Moriarty, signs that he missed. 

_Only if he was influencing her,_ he realizes, half a beat later. From the moment Sherlock learned of Moriarty's existence, he has done nothing but react. He'd tortured a dying man just to get his name. But Enola--

Suddenly, Sherlock is swept up in a memory of Enola at the age of seven. He'd been not long out of university, fretful and idle and in desperate need of distractions. The last time he'd seen her at home, before his drugs use had rendered him unfit for the company of young children, they'd taken a walk out into the grounds, leaving Mummy and Mycroft behind. She'd shown him all the secret, wild hideaways where she played, where flowers grew and water ran and trees roots emerged from the earth like the legs of giant spiders. She'd commanded him to sing for her, because he'd thoughtlessly left his violin in London, and Sherlock had searched his memory for a suitable song for a child. He'd sung to her, hearing the wear on his voice from endless cigarettes, _small and white, clean and bright, you look happy to meet me,_ and he's amazed to find he hasn't long since deleted the entire collected ouevre of Rodgers  & Hammerstein. He thinks of his sister now, fearless and brilliant, with an unshakeable moral center, who can tangle with a criminal mastermind and lose nothing of herself. She's like John, he realizes, but with Sherlock's brains, the best of them combined. He's glad he never deleted that song, never deleted that memory. 

He thinks Moriarty hadn't a clue what he was up against when he decided to get to Sherlock through her.

 

_Sodding Nutter (JM): What do you want to be when you grow up? I'm just full of useful advice!_

_Enola Holmes: I'm not sure._

_Sodding Nutter (JM): I didn't know either when I was your age. It's hard to make up your mind when you're good at so many things._

_Enola Holmes: How did you choose, then?_

_Sodding Nutter (JM): Well, when you can do ANYTHING then you just have to do what you love._

_Enola Holmes: And you love…?_

_Sodding Nutter (JM): Mm. Good question. Puzzles, I suppose, if they're good ones. What about you?_

_Enola Holmes: I like puzzles too. But everything's a puzzle if you look at it the right way._

_Sodding Nutter (JM): True. Like you and me!_

 

Sherlock freezes. His blood seems to run hot and cold at the same time. He's vaguely aware that his hand, poised over the keyboard, is trembling.

Up to this point, Sherlock had been almost prepared to admit that Mycroft was not entirely wrong, that Moriarty's communications with Enola, while disturbing by the mere fact of their existence, were nothing any grown man might not have said to any teenage girl in the presence of her family. That was probably half the point. Moriarty must be aware that Enola's family were very much present, in a sense. He was flaunting his company manners. He knew perfectly well that he didn't need to frighten or intimidate Enola in order to terrify _Sherlock_. His very restraint implied the possible introduction of its opposite.

This exchange was less restrained, though: _A puzzle, like you and me._ It opened the door to escalation, to overt manipulation, and Sherlock is going to _kill_ Mycroft. Just how closely was he still monitoring their conversations, after so many months of good behavior on Moriarty's part? Not closely enough, obviously.

Sherlock finds that he almost doesn't wish to read Enola's reply. He does so anyway.

 

_Enola Holmes: I don't think we're very puzzling._

_Sodding Nutter (JM): Oh? :-( Why not?_

_Enola Holmes: Why don't you tell me what you think I think?_

 

A long breath escapes Sherlock. He shuts his eyes briefly. Christ, she's brilliant. His pride in her is so huge it could split him apart.

 

_Sodding Nutter (JM): Oomph, that was clever of you. Awfully, awfully clever._

 

Moriarty had retreated into silence for a few days after that. Interesting, that he hadn't taken up Enola's gauntlet. He was still playing a kiddie version of the game he played with Sherlock, but he wouldn't underestimate her so much anymore. That was--not good. Potentially not good, at least.

Enola had initiated the next set of exchanges, her first time doing so, her first less-than-subtle move. Moriarty had backed off after she'd boxed him in; then she'd re-engaged him, which was less telling than the fact that Moriarty had allowed himself to be re-engaged. Sherlock supposes it wouldn't be surprising if Moriarty appreciated Enola in her own right. He'd said it himself--ordinary people were boring. And Enola is anything but ordinary.

 _She's_ my _little sister,_ he thinks, baring his teeth at the computer. _Get your own._

This conversation was from a week ago, and it was the last, apart from one text sent by Moriarty two days ago, a simple inquiry composed in Quebecois as to how her studies were progressing. Enola hadn't answered it, and when Sherlock reads to the end, he has an idea as to why.

 

_Enola Holmes: I wrote a paper, would you like to read it?_

Sodding Nutter (JM): Would I!

Enola Holmes: att:eholmes-chem447-borgiasgarden.doc 

Sodding Nutter (JM): It's brilliant. Your teacher's a bit dull though, isn't he? If you want better just say the word.

Enola Holmes: Are you offering to tutor me?

Sodding Nutter (JM): I have sooo much time on my hands, you'd be doing me a favor.

Enola Holmes: Do you know anything about poisons?

Sodding Nutter (JM): :-D

 

There followed a series of uninterrupted texts from Moriarty, telling a story Sherlock already knew. Carl Powers, botulinum toxin. The murder of a child by drowning.

Enola had sounded flippant when she'd said that Moriarty had explained it to her. She'd made it sound like he'd given her a science lesson, when in fact Moriarty had given her a horror, dressed up like science.

After that, Enola had stopped talking to him. Retreated from the field of play at the opportune moment, which was a trick Sherlock himself has never quite mastered. Moriarty had got his cut in first, though, and somewhere, under her carefully layered composure, she is still bleeding. Sherlock knows his sister well enough for that. 

He's all too painfully aware that Moriarty might have done worse to Enola than steal a drop of innocence from her. But there's something unnervingly careful and deliberate about how he'd chosen to do it, as though it were important to him to find just the right way of leaving his mark on her. He'd wanted her to think about him for a long time after. He'd wanted to get under her skin.

It was Moriarty's way of saying he wouldn't forget her either. Perhaps, even, that he was not yet finished with her, a thought which makes Sherlock's face burn and flesh crawl.

Mycroft was a fool. Their mother was not, however. Eudoria Holmes was as odd as any of her children and much more difficult to read, but she'd had her share in what might be called the family business, once, and she was not remotely to be trifled with. She'd read these texts and understood them as Mycroft had not.

And then she'd vanished. 

Sherlock's got no idea what's going to happen when his mother gets to Montreal, but he'd lay good odds that they'll be able to hear it all the way from London. He only wishes she'd taken him with her.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

When John and Enola return from their walk, Sherlock is sitting on the couch, knees drawn up against his chest. The laptop is on the table in front of him and he stares at the screen without really seeing it.

"Enjoy your walk?" he says, as they enter the sitting room. "Never mind, I don't care. John, I'd like a moment with my sister."

"Um, sure." John lays his jacket over the back of his armchair. Enola stands behind him, looking at Sherlock. "Everything--all right?"

"I'm sure you could think of a question to which the answer was more obviously _no_ , but please don't put yourself to the trouble." Sherlock ignores John rolling his eyes and unfolds himself, picking the laptop up with one hand and holding it out to John. "Since we appear to have a case, perhaps you'd like to familiarize yourself with the data."

"Right." John steps forward and takes the laptop, turning it round to face him as it balances on his palm. His brow furrows as he glances over the text, and he looks up at Sherlock, then over his shoulder at Enola. "Hang on, are you sure--Enola, do you mind me reading this?"

"I don't mind at all, but thank you for asking." She looks pointedly at Sherlock.

"Considering that you allowed half Mycroft's security analysts to read it, I hardly felt John's doing likewise would constitute an invasion of privacy." Sherlock narrows his eyes at Enola, reading details about her appearance he hadn't troubled to take in before. Now that he's looking properly, he can see evidence of interrupted sleep and a dedication to Greek composition that crosses the line from studious to single-minded determination to distract herself from other troubles. He's never known her hands to be less than steady, yet there are chemical stains along the cuff of her jacket sleeve. It's her favorite jacket; she was disturbed, not merely careless.

"Yeah, still, asking's what you do, Sherlock." John shuts the laptop and tucks it under his arm. "I'll be down again for lunch. Or sooner, if I hear shouting."

"You always hear shouting when I'm talking to family, John."

"Mycroft deserves it." _Enola doesn't_ , is the clear, unspoken end of that sentence. With a final look of admonition, John walks away.

"Sit." Sherlock fixes his sister with his gaze and points at an armchair facing the sofa.

Enola ignores this and walks over to join him on the sofa. She sits close enough to Sherlock for their shoulders to brush, turning sideways so they can face each other. 

They sit without talking for the better part of two minutes. Anyone unfamiliar with Holmesian family dynamics would probably interpret this as aggressive behavior, siblings trying to provoke each other by stubbornly refusing to be the first to speak. Sometimes this is the case, when he does this with Mycroft, but more often, as with Enola now, it is because they do not need to speak. Sherlock and Enola are observing each other, gathering the data that ordinary people must exchange voluntarily. He believes they refer to the process as "catching up".

"You would never have made it out of the country," he says finally. "Mycroft undoubtedly has your passport flagged."

"Mum's is flagged as well." 

"Yes, but she has a number of established alternate identities."

Enola arches an eyebrow at him.

"Oh." Sherlock is simultaneously taken aback and irritated with himself. "I suppose Mummy would consider that a necessary precaution."

"Yes, _Mum_ has a few for the both of us, in case we need to travel together, and one for me alone in case we're separated." She looks at him pointedly, and Sherlock flushes slightly. Enola has always found it funny that her grown-up brothers address their mother as "Mummy", and she always manages to make Sherlock feel like a tit when he does it in front of her. It's another reminder of how different her upbringing was from his and Mycroft's. No one had shipped _her_ off to public school when she was twelve. Their father had died when she was four and she's lived alone with their mother ever since. Sherlock envies her that, a bit. _She_ doesn't have any ridiculous hidebound mannerisms from a bygone era to betray her.

Still, he thinks, sulking, Mummy has _always_ been Mummy to him. He can't call her anything else now, it would feel wrong.

" _Mummy_ would have taken the precaution of hiding them so you couldn't follow her," he points out, a little smug.

"I've got ones she doesn't know about."

"How the hell--" Sherlock's face contorts, as he contemplates Enola mixing with the sort of people who have provided him with false identities in the past. "There are no decent document forgers in Sussex! You'd be found out buying beer, let alone going through customs."

"Do give me some credit, Sherlock. I made them myself." When his expression grows even more scandalized, she rolls her eyes. "It's easy if you can hack into record databases and age yourself up a bit." 

"I've changed my mind. It's Roedean for you, first thing tomorrow morning."

Enola raises her hands defensively. "I didn't have a choice! They won't even let you make a Facebook account until you're thirteen, and I only just turned fourteen. What did you think I was doing with myself all these years?"

"You have a pony."

"She died when I was five!" It's Enola's turn to look outraged, as though Sherlock's failure to keep up with the livestock at the family pile is an unconscionable betrayal.

"Fine," Sherlock snaps. "You've successfully established that there's nothing stopping you jetting around the world if you take the notion. Why didn't you go to Montreal then?"

"Because I was afraid I might distract Mummy," Enola sighs. "I didn't realize where she was going until too late. I thought walking in at the last minute might throw her timing off."

Intellectually, Sherlock admires her pragmatism. His less refined instincts make him want to shout at her. A lot. He's not even sure what for.

"I'm okay, you know," she says.

Sherlock huffs.

"Really," she says insistently. "Jim's a horrible little man and he's rubbish at chess. I hope Mum brings him to Mycroft like a cat in a sack, but I knew what he was when I started talking to him."

"You couldn't have known." Sherlock stirs uneasily. "He's unknowable, until you meet him. And even then, there's a protean quality to his madness that defies expectations."

"Sounds just your sort."

"He might have been, until he strapped John with explosives. After that, the game lost much of its appeal." Sherlock wraps his arms around his chest, a gesture he knows to be revealingly self-protective, but he can't help himself. "Now, I wouldn't care if his taxi were hit by a bus, so as he's stopped."

"Because of me?" She sounds genuinely curious.

"Of course _because of you,_ you little idiot." He struggles with himself a moment, caught between the desire to put her on her guard and the fear of making her uncomfortable. "He's a classic obsessive."

"Oh, now I'm worried, I've certainly never met anyone like that before."

"Obsessive about _anything_ that catches his interest." Sherlock looks at her intently. "He had nothing to gain by drawing my attention. I might have gone for years without knowing about him, if he hadn't sought me out. He engaged me for his own entertainment. He lost millions of pounds and a number of his intermediate operatives doing so."

"And you think he's interested in me now, for my own sake, not just because I'm your sister." She speaks calmly, like the idea isn't new to her.

"Well." Sherlock averts his gaze. "You are nothing if not entertaining."

Enola beams at him, and Sherlock can't help being warmed by it, despite the context. Before he can say anything else, however, a chime sounds from the vicinity of Enola's jacket pocket. She takes out her phone and frowns.

"What? Let me see." Sherlock snatches the phone out of her hand and reads the message on the screen.

_Sodding Nutter (JM): Oh, dear, sweet Enola, what HAVE you done now?_

Sherlock blinks, then looks at Enola. She's extremely white, but her mouth is set in a thin line.

"Call Mycroft," she says. 

But just then, the doorbell rings downstairs. Sherlock rises on his knees to look over the back of the sofa through the window. There's an unmarked black car idling at the curb.

"Oh." Enola leans forward to look with him. "Here already. That's--efficient. And rather disturbing."

Sherlock doesn't answer. He squints through the glass, trying to discern the shape of the person sitting in the back seat of the car below. The person shifts a bit, and Sherlock is suddenly cold all over.

"Go upstairs to John." He springs to his feet and clamps Enola by the shoulders, steering her toward the kitchen. 

Enola looks out the window and frowns. "But isn't that--"

"Go!" Sherlock gives her a shove.

Enola hesitates, turning to look at him over her shoulder. Then she dashes for the door. He listens for her footsteps, but there's nothing to hear, which is apparently the stealth advantage of being a fourteen year old girl who weighs next to nothing. Sherlock hops over the detritus littering the floor and climbs onto the bottom shelf of the bookcase so he can reach the top. He plucks an enormous tome on microbiology from the uppermost shelf and jumps to the ground again. The gun concealed within the hollowed out pages is fully loaded. He'd acquired it after Moriarty kidnapped John, without really thinking he'd ever need to use it, but he doubts that the jack knife on the mantel or the fireplace poker are going to be sufficient defense against whichever of Moriarty's operatives is bold enough to ring the doorbell before an attempted kidnapping. 

He raises the gun, holding his finger along the trigger guard. The door swings open. Sherlock blinks, once, and curls his finger around the trigger.

"Morning." Moriarty takes two steps into the flat, then sticks his hands in his pockets and grins. " _God_ , I'd hate to be you right now."


End file.
